Toxic Lifestyle
by Cumberbatch Critter
Summary: Really, he didn't know that tuna casserole could be toxic. Sick!fic.


**Toxic Lifestyle**

The first thing that John became aware of when he entered the flat was the _smell_.

John wasn't entirely _sure _what it smelled like, except that it made him pull up his nose and open his mouth in preparation to yell at Sherlock.

He stopped, though, when he glanced up and saw Sherlock on the sofa, huddled down in a ball, swathed in blankets, looking absolutely miserable.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, dropping his coat and taking the few steps to the sofa. "What happened?"

Sherlock shivered and glared at him- for reasons that John was sure wasn't because of him- from beneath the blanket wrapped over his head. "I said I felt unwell this morning," he said hoarsely, hunching himself further into the blankets.

He had, but John hadn't put much stock in it. Sherlock hadn't slept for going on five days and ate so little that it hardly surprised him that he felt under the weather. But not like _this_.

John moved to push the blanket out of the way so he could feel Sherlock's forehead, but his friend flinched away so hard that he winced again, afterwards, as pain flashed across his eyes.

"Hey, don't do that," John murmured, making purchase this time. Sherlock's forehead was warm and clammy, sweaty beneath his hand. "You've got a fever."

"I _know_," Sherlock replied, aiming for his usual tone and failing miserably.

"Have you taken anything for it?" John asked, coaxing the blanket away from Sherlock's face.

"Paracetamol..." Sherlock mumbled. "Hasn't seemed to help."

"Knowing you, I doubt it does," John muttered, sitting on the edge of the coffee table. "Other symptoms?"

Sherlock sighed shakily. "Can we not do this?"

"Do what?" John asked absently, trying to take in the physical appearance of his friend and make a deduction about it.

"You... being a doctor."

"I'm a doctor just as much as you're a consulting detective," John replied smartly. "Can you give me your hand? I want to check your pulse."

Sherlock shook his head. "It's elevated... I'm freezing..."

John raised his eyebrows. "I can see that, but you know as well as I that your body's too warm, Sherlock. What are you wearing under there?"

"The same thing I was wearing this morning," Sherlock said tiredly.

Which meant a short-sleeve tee and lightweight pyjama pants. John sighed. "Okay, look, go back and change into something heavier and then we'll sort out the blankets. You know what, just get in bed. Resting is going to be best for you right now."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably and shook his head. "Can't."

"Can't what? You can't change your clothes or can't go to bed?"

"I can't go back to be-" Sherlock broke off as his stomach interrupted his train of thought with a particularly loud gurgle.

John blinked and looked between Sherlock and the general place where Sherlock's stomach would be under all those blankets.

Sherlock moaned in the back of his throat and got to his feet abruptly, shedding the blankets in one fluid movement.

John stood up, too. "Sherlock?"

"Bathroom," Sherlock replied tersely, not breaking stride.

John stared down the hall after the bathroom door had swung shut. Then he sighed and resisted the very strong urge to rub his eyes. He didn't know what Sherlock had, after all.

He hoped that he started cooperating... John couldn't help him if he didn't start telling him what was wrong, what he had done, when he had started feeling ill. He had a fever, that much was obvious, and his stomach was upset... The latter, to what end (quite literally), John didn't know. Chills, sweating... Guessing by the wince earlier, he probably had a headache, too.

John shook his head and went to put the kettle on.

He spent the next few minutes making up Sherlock's bed neatly, with one of the extra blankets that Sherlock had had on the sofa. He then found a long-sleeved shirt and a pair of warm socks, going to the bathroom door when he heard the tap running.

"Sherlock."

"... Hm?" Sherlock intoned.

"Can I come in?"

"I suppose."

John pushed the door open, watching Sherlock shiver as he dried off his hands. "I found you a better shirt and some socks. Apparently you don't have warmer trousers than those," he said disapprovingly, "so they'll have to do."

Sherlock stared blankly at the articles of clothing for a moment before taking them.

"Vomiting or diarrhoea?" John asked quietly.

Sherlock pulled his shirt off slowly. "Isn't it obvious?"

"No," John said simply, opening the cabinet to pull out the thermometer.

Sherlock sighed, muffled by his changing of shirts. "Diarrhoea."

"Have you been drinking plenty?"

"I suppose," Sherlock muttered, head popping out of the correct place in his shirt.

"That's a 'no'," John said, dousing the thermometer in alcohol and then rinsing it off like clockwork. "I'll make you a tea. It'll help you get warm. Here."

Sherlock took the thermometer with another weak glare, padding unsteadily out of the bathroom.

"You started feeling sick this morning?" John asked, raising his voice.

"Mhmmm." The response from the bedroom was muffled again.

John put the alcohol back and unearthed the air freshener only to find it empty. He sighed and set the empty can aside, following Sherlock into the bedroom as the thermometer chimed.

At least Sherlock had gotten into bed on his own accord. It was progress, John thought, as he slipped the thermometer from between Sherlock's lips and glanced at the reading. "Thirty-eight three. Low grade. Did you do anything this morning or late last night that could have caused this?"

Sherlock glared at him from his curled up position in bed. "Well, I didn't poison myself." From the way he was laying, John could tell he was curled onto his side with his knees drawn up. His stomach had to be killing him.

"Did you do _anything_ different? Tell me what you did," John said. "Anything. No matter how inconsequential. Did you eat?"

Sherlock shook his head before stopping suddenly.

John watched him warily, unsure if his flatmate had been vomiting or now felt the urge or needed to make his way back to the loo again.

"... Casserole," Sherlock mumbled.

"What?"

Sherlock swallowed. "Tuna casserole."

John frowned. "Tuna... Not that one in the fridge."

Sherlock let out a pitiful whimper, the sound itself nearly making John flinch. He curled up impossibly tighter and then stretched out, rolling onto his back. John noticed his chest rising and falling quicker than normal.

"Alright... You ate the casserole. Sherlock, that thing's been in there for _weeks_!"

"Thanks, I figured that out _now_!" Sherlock retorted.

"Food poisoning..." John sighed heavily. "That's not something I can just cure."

"You're so encouraging," Sherlock mumbled, rolling onto his side again.

"Well, at least I know what it is now," John muttered, turning away. "Let me get a cold cloth and then I'll get you that tea."

Sherlock didn't reply, although he shuffled around a bit more, clearly trying to find some relief in the situation.

Bloody idiot. John had been meaning to bin the casserole for days now, but it had always gotten pushed to the back of the fridge because of Sherlock's experiments and he kept forgetting about it. And then Sherlock, what, had been so famished that he ate it without even _tasting_ that it'd gone off? Sounded like something he would do, to be honest.

He picked up a flannel and ran it under the cold water, wringing it out while he thought. He would go pick up something for Sherlock's stomach, but it had to make its way through his system. Idiot.

"Alright-" John stopped when he returned to the bedroom. "Sherlock..."

Sherlock was on his back again, knees drawn up to tent the blankets. His hands were pressed against his eyes and he was shaking visibly.

John wondered if he'd been like this all day.

"Sherlock," John repeated, walking over. "Hey, take a deep breath, mate."

Sherlock didn't reply, but he did draw in a deep breath a few seconds later.

John coaxed him through a few more, gently removing his hands from his eyes. "Good," he murmured, carefully wiping away some of the sweat from Sherlock's forehead. He flinched from the initial touch but probably didn't feel up to arguing just then. "Keep taking deep breaths. Grip the blankets, if it helps."

"Why would it help?" Sherlock bit off without opening his eyes.

"Because you can channel your pain into something else. Trust me." John left the compress on Sherlock's forehead. "I'll be right back with your tea."

He did return presently with a not quite steaming cup of tea, but it would be warm enough for Sherlock. The detective's hands were clutching the duvet so tightly that his knuckles were stretched taut and gleaming white.

"Tea," John said quietly.

Sherlock licked his lips but didn't open his eyes.

"It's nice and warm. You need to stay hydrated."

Sherlock stifled a moan but levered himself into a sitting position, staring blearily towards John.

John handed over his tea carefully (he had filled it only halfway so Sherlock's shaking wouldn't spill it) and watched Sherlock take a sip. He sighed pleasantly after a moment and continued to shiver.

"Have you been like this all day?" John asked quietly, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

Sherlock stared into his tea before closing his eyes again. "More or less. Pain comes and goes."

John sighed. "I'm sorry. I thought you were just tired this morning."

"I said I felt sick," Sherlock muttered, "not tired."

"You should have called."

"I thought I wasn't supposed to call you at work..." Sherlock said.

John shook his head. "But you're a patient now. That's different. You're always supposed to call me if you're hurt."

"I'm not hurt."

"You're hurt_ing_," John said.

Sherlock grunted in reply, taking another sip of his tea. He paused with the mug halfway to his lips when his stomach grumbled again.

John sighed. "It's got to work its way through you. I'll go pick you up some medicine but..." he trailed off.

Sherlock sighed, shifting. "I know. I've had food poisoning before."

"Of course you have. Have you tried eating today?"

Sherlock shook his head, taking another small sip of tea.

"You should, you know. I know you don't feel up to it but it might help your stomach stop hurting."

Sherlock shrugged.

"If I make some soup later, will you try it?"

Sherlock shrugged again.

John sighed. "Have you been vomiting at all? Nauseous?"

"No," Sherlock said shortly.

"Well, at least it's only on one end..."

Sherlock gave him a dirty look, leaning back a bit against the headboard.

"I know it's still not comfortable." John stood. "I'll go to Tesco and see what I can find for your stomach, alright?"

Sherlock nodded shortly.

"And I'll pick up some food, something light. Applesauce, soups, ice lollies. That sort of thing."

"Alright."

"Try to get some sleep," John said. "It'll help you more than anything, I think."

"Okay," Sherlock replied in a monotone.

John smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring way before heading out of the room.

* * *

John returned about a half hour later, dropping the bags onto the table. He put away the ice lollies first and then went to check on Sherlock.

He knocked softly and pushed the door open, eyes falling on the sleeping detective curled up at the edge of the bed. Good. He was finally getting some sleep.

John closed the door again and went to put the groceries away. Only after he had done this did he return to his flatmate's bedroom again, first feeling his forehead and then going to the bathroom to re-wet the compress. He pressed it against Sherlock's neck- he was sweating horribly- and the detective stirred slightly beneath the cold, wet sensation.

"... John?"

John smiled faintly. "Yeah. Go back to sleep. You can have some soup later."

Sherlock hummed and closed his eyes again, curling up slightly. "Did you find something for my stomach...?" he mumbled.

"Yeah, but I'm not sure how effective it'll be. You want a dose now?"

Sherlock nodded slightly.

"Alright. Just a second," John murmured.

He grabbed the medicine from the shopping and read out the dosage, taking the correct amount back to Sherlock. "Here you are."

Sherlock took the medication and swallowed it back, thumping his head back onto the pillow again.

"Need anything else?"

"Guess not," Sherlock mumbled. He shifted and curled up more, wrapping his arms around his stomach.

John sighed and fixed the blanket. "Still hurts?"

"Obviously..."

"Hm."

John tilted his head and walked into the bathroom. It took him a few minutes to unearth the hot water bottle, but he was pleased when he found it hadn't been subjected to having bits cut out of it or the stopper taken away. He filled it up with hot water and took it back, moving the blankets to slide it underneath the arm Sherlock had wrapped around his stomach.

Sherlock's eyes flew open. "What..."

"Water bottle. The heat might help," John said quietly.

"Mmm..." Sherlock shifted, holding the bottle more firmly to his stomach.

"Go back to sleep."

Sherlock didn't respond, but John didn't expect him to. For the first time since John had told him he was going to work this morning, Sherlock actually looked relaxed. John was just thankful Sherlock was getting some good sleep.

Still. The git. John was going to have to keep tabs on what Sherlock ate when he wasn't there to feed him.

* * *

**Because I have been feeling really crappy the past few days. I know that I've done so many sick!fics but... yeah. I've been feeling icky.  
**

**(Note: I think I've caught all the typos now. If you see any, please disregard. Like I said: not at the top of my game and the amount of mistakes I found gobsmacked me...) **

**I do not own _Sherlock_. Thank you.**


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